


heart burns for the twist of his lips

by ladywoolsley



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (somewhere near future), M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywoolsley/pseuds/ladywoolsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times the Iron Bull's smile is Dorian's undoing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart burns for the twist of his lips

**Author's Note:**

> this idea is actually quite old, i began to write this fic almost immediately after i finished my first playthrough but since then i've rewritten this first chapter four or five times. something about it still bothers me but oh well.
> 
> this is not my first work in this fandom but it _is_ the first time i've gathered enough courage to publish something about dragon age. so, i'm a bit nervous, not going to lie!
> 
> kudos, comments, bookmarks -- are all welcome. ♥

Dorian closes the tavern's door.

He lets it shut with a carelessly dramatic fashion, trying to pay no attention to the cold or the nearby group of glaring scouts. Someone spits in the snow, another one hisses _magister_ under their breath as the curse word it is for them. Dorian lifts his gaze, wiggles his fingers in their direction, twists his lips without saying anything.

That much Dorian can honestly say he has learned. 

Never catch the bait.

The night is early, dark, hazy-like. The moon is covered with some kind of fog, not illuminating the village like it should. The lit torches keep the village alive at night though it's never exactly silent, not with too many people and too little room for them to be.

The wind is blowing from the north if Dorian's not mistaken though it's more than possible he is. He tries the traitorous snow with his staff blade, there's ice beneath all the white and it wouldn't do for him to fall and crack his skull or possibly something worse.

Someone laughs close by as Dorian hesitates.

He carries on his way.

The truth of the matter is this: Haven is a cold place for Dorian to be.

Dorian can easily handle the mountain wind, the frost nipping his red cheeks, the snow grunting underneath the warmest boots he could afford and the fact that darkness is often longer than daylight. These are the things he can endure, readily even, he was prepared as well as he could be.

The people, well. They are another thing entirely, being colder than the weather could ever be.

You'd think it would be easy to get used to, a few mean words here and there should mean nothing. Dorian knows who he is, other people don't need to know it for him to be able to breathe or live his life. 

But trying to ignore the people, the people he sees every day but has always different faces, has proved to be more overwhelming than Dorian initially anticipated.

Dorian has never been good at being bypassed but some part of his sanity thinks it would be a better option than this.

He's on halfway to his own cabin, when a muffled scream shatters the peace of the eve. Dorian's fingertips light up on fire as a reaction and he grips his staff firmer.

”Kaffas.”

He throws a look over his shoulder and holds his breath for a moment. It may be just his luck that someone has decided to get assassinated a few steps away from his bloody cottage.

What will the people say.

Dorian goes, slowly, quietly, around the other cabin and there someone sighs and then giggles and by then it's already too late and this the kind of situation Dorian has never wanted to be.

He stares.

”Do you mind?!”

It's one of Flissa's barmaids, thankfully she's mostly dressed, pinned to the wall of the cabin by the bloody infamous Qunari.

The Iron Bull, the agent of the Ben Hassrath who is holding the waitress' naked thigh in his ridiculously big palm while he's standing between her legs. He doesn't look even remotely embarrassed.

Dorian knows about him, who wouldn't know about him, but he has yet changed words with the horned savage. The Herald, Astoria Trevelyan, told him about the Iron Bull before he arrived at Haven, said Dorian has nothing to worry about if he can handle the constant flirting and innuendos.

The Iron Bull's whole fucking face lights up into an amused expression, his only eye narrowing from the force of his grin. His hand stays where it is, his thumb moves on her skin. Dorian can see a trace of the barmaid's blue undergarments.

His cheeks _burn_.

”Sorry,” the Iron Bull says easily and steps away from the girl who looks absolutely furious. ”Did we wake you?”

Dorian doesn't have the capacity to answer, he's too embarrassed and his vocal cords are completely paralyzed. It's stupid. He stares at the Iron Bull's hand, the two stub fingers, the nails sharper than any humans.

He remembers Father's words. Mindless beasts but ones to be never underestimated. The warmongers of the North, the people in the South say. Dorian wonders briefly if the Iron Bull is as unwelcome here as he is.

Dorian lifts his gaze. The Iron Bull is grinning, ruthlessly.

”It's the fucking 'vint,” the girl hisses angrily. Her hair is on a messy bun, some of the curls have purposefully escaped. She straightens her skirt. ”The magister,” she curses then.

Dorian blinks, once, twice, and then makes a show of sighing. ”I'll have you know that I am a respected Altus of the Tevinter Imperium,” he explains, the speech sounding too practised even to his own ears. ”Not a Magister.”

The Iron Bull's hand finds the barmaids cheek, the thumb moves again. ”Sorry,” he says. ”Raincheck?” The maid nods and slips of with poison on the twist of her lips.

Dorian clears his throat and the Iron Bull scratches his horn. His chest is bare. Why on earth is his chest bare? 

”I am sorry for interrupting your...”

He tastes different kind of words in his tongue. Abandons them all. ”Relations.”

”Nah,” the Iron Bull rolls his shoulders like after a hard muscle training. ”It's okay.” 

He doesn't offer an explanation why would Dorian interrupting him getting laid with a pretty girl be _okay_.

”I would think,” Dorian says, mouth moving before he has time to gather the rest of his thoughts, ”that those kind of activities be best to perform somewhere inside. In a building where it's not cold and some innocent 'magister' doesn't have to get scarred for a life time.”

The Iron Bull laughs. ”Oh, you have seen _nothing_ yet.” He tries to wink with his only eye. Dorian is appalled.

The night seems to be, all of the sudden, somewhat clearer than before. Dorian's eyes are drawn to the Iron Bull's chest. The old scars against the bare grey skin. The unavoidable nipples. Dorian lifts his gaze, it feels like a long way from the Iron Bull's chest to his face.

It is infuriating to see the confidence sparkling in the Iron Bull's eye, the knowing grin. Not once has he stopped smiling, Dorian is feeling rather annoyed as well as flustered.

”You're Dorian, right?”

Dorian nods. ”Yes, I believe I am rather infamous at this point.”

Another laugh. It's a rumbling sound, like a roaring thunder.

”Well, I don't doubt it with those looks.”

There comes the flirting. The Iron Bull hasn't taken steps towards Dorian before but now his feet drag the snow with them as he nears Dorian. Dorian wants to back away but he holds his ground even though the form of the Iron Bull is somewhat intimidating.

”So, you recognize things with quality then?” Dorian says. ”I am shocked.”

”'Things'.” A thoughtful pause. ”Things no, people yes.”

Of all the things the Iron Bull could say.

Dorian feels speechless, his witty tongue useless and it seems like the Iron Bull takes pity on him.

”But now that my plans are screwed I should go back to my guys,” the Iron Bull says, looks pointedly at Dorian. The grin widens. ”Unless...”

Dorian closes his eyes, has time to count to three before the Iron Bull opens his mouth again.

” _You'd_ care to ride the Bull?”

Dorian eyes strike open. He splutters and the grinning brute waits politely to him to gather his dignity to answer. Dorian can feel the flush spreading to his cheeks and neck, his fingers tighten against his staff when the shivers travel through his spine.

”Excuse me,” is what actually leaves his lips and the Iron Bull's shoulder rise before falling down again.

”Can't blame a guy for trying, eh?” 

He doesn't sound affected but the grin's edges soften just a bit, and in that moment, a few minutes after Dorian has met the Iron Bull for the first time, Dorian Pavus learns that the Iron Bull would never force himself on anyone. Dorian doesn't know him, he knew his name and the shape of his face, but somehow the thought is still surprising. 

”You did hear that I'm a Tevinter, yes?” Dorian can't help but say. It seems important, somehow, that the Iron Bull is aware of the fact, a reminder for the war between their peoples.

”If it's not a problem to you, it's not a problem to me,” the Iron Bull shrugs.

Dorian digs his staff blade into the snow, distracting himself. ”Is it that simple?”

”That simple,” he confirms seriously. Dorian has probably never been this confused.

”I'm gonna go now, come by my tent if you want to have a chat.” A brief pause. ”Or something.”

A flash of teeth and then he strides away past Dorian, leaving flush on Dorian cheeks and his nervous heart hammer quietly.


End file.
